


The Devil You Know

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood, Body Horror, Brother Feels, Demonic Possession, Gen, Guilty Ford, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery Trio, Stangst, Torture, as it usually does when possession is involved, don't do demonic possession kids, never a good idea, possessed!Ford, protective!Fiddleford, serious shit goes down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5589928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You shouldn’t be snooping here, Stanley.” The voice chastising him belonged to his brother, yet there was something about the gleeful, menacing way it was spoken that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. “If you’re not careful, you might get yourself hurt.”</p><p>Or, a Mystery Trio AU where Stan’s staying at his brother’s house, but knows nothing about his affiliation with Bill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of my more popular stories over on tumblr, which I've finally gotten to post here. Hope you enjoy!

The elevator dinged ominously as it arrived at the third level beneath the Shack. Stanley stepped out, cautious yet casual, reminding himself that although he didn’t have Ford’s expressed permission to enter his lab, it wasn’t like his brother had left him much choice.

Poindexter was probably passed out from his nonstop nerding, anyway, so it should be safe to poke around and find whatever the hell it was he and Fidds spent all their time working on, when the three of them weren’t monster-hunting.

Or _used to_ , anyway. Out of the blue, Fidds had quit his assistant job this afternoon. Stomped out of the basement, looking pissed and fed up about _something_ , yet Stan had not even gotten the chance to wrangle the answer outta him before the other man stormed off.

So he'd attempted to question Ford, which was the equivalent of trying to milk a chicken. His brother had dismissed his inquiries and concerns, saying it was to do with work, and therefore, _none of his business._

That remark had _stung_ , but hadn’t deterred his quest in the slightest. Stan was not an imbecile; he was aware that something fishy was going on, something that nobody was willing to share with him. Now Fidds wouldn’t even return his calls and Ford wasn't giving him a goddamn hint. Meaning that, if Stan wanted to shed some light on this secret, he was going to have to do it alone.

Running his hand over the sleek machinery that surrounded his brother’s workspace, Stan whistled lowly in the back of his throat. Idly, he began rummaging through a few cabinets, searching for some sort of clue. Finding nothing of note, he crept into the larger, darker part of the basement.

The first thing he came across was a chalk circle with a bunch of weird symbols drawn around it. Stan’s brow skyrocketed as he bent to inspect them, squinting through the dimness, getting a weird Manson family vibe from the look of the whole thing.

Abruptly, all the candles ignited by some unseen spark, nearly knocking him on his ass.

“You shouldn’t be snooping, Stanley.” The voice chastising him belonged to his brother, yet there was something about the gleeful, menacing way it was spoken that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. “If you’re not careful, you might get yourself _hurt_.”

Stan spun around, an explanation on the tip of his tongue. But when he saw his brother, with the upper half of his face cast in shadow, the smirk he wore caught Stanley off guard. Since Ford hadn’t lost his shit and started yelling yet, though, he hoped that maybe this meant his brother was in an amused, forgiving mood.

With a sheepish chuckle, he snorted. “Yeah, whatever you say, Sixer. Like, what, I’ll trip over one of your nerd projects and twist my ankle?”

“To be honest, I worry far more over you ruining my work than injuring yourself,” Ford remarked condescendingly. “Let’s not forget the science fair incident.”

Gaping at the casual reference to a mistake that remained a stain on their relationship to this day, Stan floundered for a response.

“…that was an accident,” he mumbled, suddenly seventeen again, hastening to explain himself to the unmoved, furious figure of his father.

“Oh sure, an accident that cost me my dream.” Ford chuckled calmly before doing a complete 360, switching from sarcastic to sober. “But enough about your past screw-ups. What do you have to say for yourself _now_ , coming down here after I explicitly requested that you stay away?”

“Request?” Stan echoed, scowling. “You gave me a goddamn restraining order! Who do you think you are, _Dad?”_

Ford scoffed. “Of course not. It’s not like I kicked you out or anything.”

The flippant, careless mention of a subject still so painful had Stan _reeling_ , his gut churning with shame and hurt.

Worse was that Stanford’s face didn’t betray an ounce of guilt or remorse.

“You never answered my question, _little_ brother.”

“By seven minutes,” Stan rebutted indignantly. Old habits died hard. “And you should’ve figured it out, what with your enormous IQ. Something’s rotten in the state of Oregon and the reek stems from this place!”

Ford merely grinned, y-yet it was so - _wrong_ , so eerily out-of-place for his brother to wear such an expression that for the first time since setting foot downstairs, Stan felt a shiver of fear run down his spine.

But this was his brother, weird behavior or not, and with that in mind Stan mustered the courage to continue. “Fidds wouldn’t quit without a reason, and I _know_ you know what I’m talking about, I ain’t _that_ dumb - it’s to do with whatever you’re hiding from me. And no matter how hard I try to convince you, to show you I’m trustworthy, you tell me _squat._ So what was I supposed to do?”

“You could do as you’re told for _once_ in your life instead of always making things more difficult,” Ford intoned harshly. Then he sighed, as if very put-upon, “Especially since now I have to punish you.”

It was such a cliché, unthinkable threat that Stan automatically took it as a joke. _“What?”_ he guffawed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Before Stan could reply, he felt a force shove him to the floor, the blow akin to that of a bat slamming into his stomach. He coughed, trying to stand, only for a strong, six-fingered grip to wrestle him down, putting him at an uncomfortably vulnerable angle.

“Argh, Ford, the hell-” He gasped as the thick, familiar fabric of rope dug into his wrists, and he hardly had a chance to process what his brother was doing until his arms were already bound tight, immobilizing them behind his back.

“Shit! Th-This _isn’t funny!_ Ford, you know I don't - I c-cant-” He swallowed past the thick ring of panic clawing up his throat, awakening memories of being locked in the trunk of a car, the impenetrable darkness and lack of oxygen threatening to overwhelm him.

“Let me go!” he shouted, thrashing against his brother’s weight, which refused to budge.

“Pipe down, you goddamn _wussy,”_ Stanford hissed into his ear, grabbing a fistful of his brother’s hair, eliciting a grunt of pain. Stanley actually froze, because _wussy_ wasn’t a word Ford had ever used against him, but _Dad_ sure as hell had, back when he was just a wimpy kid.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched as Ford’s free hand revealed a dagger, its keen edge glinting in the candlelight. Stan’s struggles began anew, more frantic now, while he pleaded, “Ford, no, please - bro, stop, I’m sorry - please don’t-”

“Sorry, Stanley. Some lessons have to taught _thoroughly_ in order to sink in,” Ford recited with relish, holding the blade over the flames until the tip was a glowing, burning red. It was the last thing Stan saw before his face was shoved into the cold, unforgiving ground.

He didn’t need eyes to see the unsettling smile stretched over his brother’s features. “Don’t worry. I promise, it will only hurt _a lot.”_

_._

_._

_._

_._

Fiddleford yawned as he parked his car at the edge of Gopher Lane, the silhouette of the Shack eclipsing the midmorning sun. He had scarcely slept the night before, mind too occupied to allow a decent night of rest.

His wife had been exceptionally supportive of his decision to quit his latest career endeavor, despite having uprooted their family from Sao Paulo for this job; nor had she questioned his motives for leaving, and for that, he was supremely grateful.

How do you explain to your wife that your employer and friend had gotten chummy with a demon?

Approaching the front door, he raised his hand to knock, but ultimately thought better of it. Of course, it was unlocked, anyway - the Pines brothers didn’t have an ounce of common sense between them. Honestly.

He entered quietly, deliberately avoiding a ruckus. He was hoping to evade his old friend, if he could help it. They hadn’t parted on favorable terms.

The only reason he was even here to was to collect the belongings he’d left behind yesterday after his…fit.

A few gadgets, mostly, along with his laptop. And Stanley, too, he should check on, as his wife told him that the man had left four calls that he’d declined to pick up.

Which wasn’t fair at all, he admitted guiltily, as Stanley was probably only worried as well as confused, since he remained totally ignorant of Stanford’s disturbing accord with the demon - a fact Fiddleford found truly disconcerting. Stanford insisted on keeping it a secret, claiming that his brother was irrational by nature and wouldn’t understand.

The more Fiddleford thought about it, however, the more he suspected that _Stanford and he_ were the irrational ones for turning a blind eye.

Expecting silence when he got to the basement, as there was no sign of Stanford, the engineer jumped at a low, keening sound coming from the room where the portal lay. The _portal_ \- a dangerous, operational gateway into another world. And the noises - wheezing, wounded sounds that he remembered from when his Pa took him hunting as a boy - were akin to that of an animal-like creature, or perhaps even a humanoid.

Fiddleford swallowed, a cold clamp of fear circulating through his chest. Yet stronger than the fright was the concern for someone who might be hurt, someone who needed help.

Pushing aside his fear, Fiddleford walked into the dark space, moving more by memory than sight. “Hello?” he called.

A circle of candles whittled down to the wax stood around a mass of chalk-drawn symbols, Stanford’s usual meditation spot. In the middle of the circle lay the source of the weak noises, an unmistakably human form, and as Fiddleford drew closer he gasped. A shocked, horrified sound that echoed like a crack of gunfire.

_“Stanley!”_

_._

_._

_._

_._

Ford slowly blinked awake from a long, dreamless sleep within his study. Fixing his askew glasses and peeling his face from the desk, he stood with a groan, loosening stiff muscles. That’s right. He must have nodded off making notes in the journal late last night…

Despite not getting a decent seven hours of rest, coupled with an awkward sleeping position, Stanford felt strangely refreshed as he descended from the second level of the basement to the third, intent on monitoring the portal’s progress before meeting his brother for breakfast, as per the usual morning routine.

Today was different, however, as he heard an unknown voice from within the lowest level of the basement, hushed yet vaguely audible.

Instantly, his shoulders tensed and his mind jumped to one conclusion: Stanley. Had his brother disobeyed his direct orders and gone exploring?

_Damn it, Stan. Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?_

On some level, he conceded that it was partially his fault for not offering his brother any information after Fiddleford’s departure, beyond basic reassurances.

 _He isn’t ready for the truth. Not yet_.

Edging towards the whispers, Ford paused when he saw _two_ figures huddled on the floor, one obstructed by the other.

The first, shockingly, was his former assistant - who appeared to be kneeling before the second person, arms on their shoulders, speaking softly and indistinct.

 _“Jesus-”_ He caught pieces of his familiar drawl spitting out a slew of murmurings. “- _need_ to have it looked at - no, a hospital - infection could-”

If those bits of dialogue weren’t worrying enough, Fiddleford’s soothing tone - usually reserved for his young son, Tate, and startled animals - was the last straw.

“Fiddleford?” Ford hailed, emerging from the shadows. As he came closer, he discerned the figure hunched behind his colleague. “…Stanley? What’s going on?”

His brother jolted, eyes wide and alarmed, as Fiddleford’s spine went rigid. Slowly, dislodging Stanley’s clencged fist from his coat, the engineer turned to regard Stanford. No sooner than their gazes met - furious blue against a perplexed brown - was an electric taser aimed at his face, the stray sparks hissing with energy.

“Stay back,” Fiddleford warned. “Or I-I’ll-”

“Get a hold of yourself, man!” Ford yelled, raising his hands to pacify his colleague. “Just _calm down._ It’s _me,_ Stanford!”

“Is it?” the engineer retorted cynically. “How can we be certain it isn’t that pal of yours?”

His face darkened at the reference to Bill. “Please, Fiddleford, put the weapon away,” he urged, glancing at his curiously quiet brother for assistance, taking a step towards him. “Stanley, what’s-”

 _“Don’t,”_ Fiddleford snarled, blocking his path. Ford froze, taken aback by the ferocity in his tone, the likes of which he’d never heard fro his mild-mannered friend. “You leave him alone y-you - _monster_. Haven’t you done enough?”

“Done?” Ford repeated, growing more agitated by the second. I haven’t - I’ve _barely_ left my study since yesterday! For God’s sake, will somebody tell me what the hell’s going on - _and stop pointing that damn gun at me!“_

Fiddleford didn’t falter, suspicious gaze sweeping over his, uncertain. Stanford sighed.

"Look at my eyes,” he beseeched. “Do I seem possessed to you?”

“…It’s him,” Stanley declared after a beat of silence, slowly and with clear effort. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d screamed himself raw. “‘Least I _think_ so.”

Hesitantly, Fiddleford lowered his arm, the taser kept loosely in his white-knuckled grip. And he remained firmly rooted between the two of them, which frustrated Ford, who very much needed to have a look at his obviously distressed brother _right this instant._ Before he could voice this, however, Stanley released a shuddering sigh.

“L-Last night, I went down to the basement,” he explained, the words raspy and stilted. “I-I knew you were keeping a secret and I had to…”

Stan inhaled sharply, breath hitching. “I got caught b-by you,” he managed to get out, rushed and disoriented. “Only, it _wasn’t_ you - I mean it _was,_ but not - _not-”_

Fuming, Fiddleford glared pointedly at the chalk circle he used for meditation. Stanford frowned apprehensively.

 _“Bill?_   Last night? I don’t recall… I don’t have any memory of that _whatsoever.”_   He shook his head, as though trying to work out the kinks. “But this doesn’t make sense, he wouldn’t act without reason! Stanley, I know how the situation seems, but Bill is not what you think. For not being of our world, he’s the most civilized intellectual I’ve ever met-”

“Yeah, he’s _real swell,”_   Stan choked out, half a disarming chuckle, half a hysterical cry.

“Stanley,” Ford startled, moving to lay a hand on his shoulder.

His brother flinched violently away from the touch. Stanford was so shocked by the evasion that he retracted his arm as if burned. His hand fell to his side, shaking ever so slightly as the pieces began forming a horrifying picture. Throat filled with trepidation, Ford turned to his colleague, who had observed the exchange warily.

“What did I do?” he asked bleakly, afraid of the answer.

Fiddleford’s mouth formed a grim line before he looked at Stan, and in an infinitely softer tone, said, _“Show him.”_

Stanley winced at the request, causing Ford’s stomach to lurch. It was still to surreal, too awful to even believe. Bill was - a friend, a fellow scholar, who had proved to be nothing except an eager asset to his research-

And then, Stan lifted his shirt and turned, baring his back. In that moment, Ford’s lungs constricted like a vice; it felt the same as being socked in the chest by a massive tidal wave.

His brother’s skin was marred by dark, ugly red lines that had been traced - no, _carved_ into his skin by a blade. The cuts appeared painstakingly, intricately ( _how long had it taken, how long had he been down here, screaming_ ) drawn into symbols he recognized. Undoubtedly marks of demonic, otherworldly meaning; but all Ford could process was the fact that _Bill_ \- who he had trusted, with _everything_ , with _Stan_ \- had tied his brother down and _sliced into him with a dagger._

Using _his_ body. Using _his_ hands.

 _“Oh,_ _God,”_   Ford blanched, covering his mouth so he wouldn’t heave, the urge to be ill overcoming him swiftly, an onslaught of violation and guilt, anger and disgust seeping in from every direction, with no escape or reprieve. “Christ, Stanley, I-I’m so, so sorry - s-sorry, I didn’t - I never imagined - Stanley, God, what have I done?”

“Why don’t you ask your good friend, Bill?” Fiddleford mumbled bitterly.

Ford’s stomach revolted at the suggestion, and he shut his eyes, battling another bout of nausea. “Stanley, I’m sorry,” he rasped tearfully, hands shaking as he dared reach for his brother again, to soothe the wounds he’d dealt - yet he held back, for what right did he have, after the atrocity these hands had committed? _“God,_ please forgive me.”

Sucking in a shallow breath, his brother regard him with a heartbreaking note of relief. “I-It wasn’t you,” Stanley stuttered out. “I knew it couldn’t - I’m glad - it wasn’t you.”

He kept repeating this same phrase, over and over like a mantra. Ford couldn’t stand it any longer and tentatively wrapped his arms around his brother, careful to avoid the cuts that were sure to scar, slumping when Stan stiffened but didn’t refuse the embrace.

They remained like that, with Ford offering what comfort he could as Stanley gradually relaxed. “We need to treat those as soon as possible,” Fiddleford interrupted gently, probably speaking more to Stan than anyone. “Otherwise they’ll get infected and you’ll be in a worse world of hurt.”

Ford nodded in assent, while Stanley just looked miserable, realizing that he had little choice in this matter.

Moreover, the prospect of receiving treatment at a hospital proved to only distress him further; and knowing that his abnormal injuries would be difficult to explain, the two scientists reluctantly conceded. Fiddleford dressed the wounds as best he could, while Ford waited anxiously outside the door, pacing like a madman.

“Is he…?” he inquired the second Fiddleford emerged, weary-eyed and tight-lipped.

“Reckon he’s as comfy as he’s gonna get,” Fiddleford answered with an honest shrug. “Gave him a strong dose of pain medication, which'll hopefully will let him rest awhile without waking.”

Stanford exhaled through his nose. “Good,” he breathed, slouching against the wall. The dead air between them wasn’t breached for a full five minutes, each man neglecting to speak what was on his mind; nevertheless, Ford was fairly certain of what was going through Fiddleford’s head.

“Go ahead,” he said eventually. “Tell me you were right. Tell me what a _fucking_ idiot I am.”

“You are a fucking idiot. And believe me, I’d slap the idiot outta you if I thought it would help any,” Fiddleford snapped before softening every so slightly. “Stanley getting caught in the crosshairs, though…you never _meant_ for that to happen. Doesn’t change the fact that it did, or that you should have foreseen such a catastrophe, trusting that devil with your flesh.”

Ford hung his head, knowing it was true, and that he deserved every ounce of reprimand and then some.

“But Stanford, I have to ask,” Fiddleford continued, pulling him from his shroud of self-loathing. “…what do you intend to do about this?”

“…I don’t know yet,” Ford confessed, squaring his shoulders. “However, I have an idea of where to start.”

He peered into the bedroom where his brother slumbered peacefully for the time being, gingerly propped onto his side. The sight gave him strength for what he was about to do.

“Look after him,” he implored, although he figured that his ex-assistant was more than willing to do so, with or without his blessing. “Keep him safe.”

“Where are you going?” Fiddleford called after his retreating back.

“I need to have a chat with a _former_ acquaintance of mine,” Ford stated icily. “And it’s not going to be pleasant.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, the much-needed comfort to all the hurt of the previous chapter. Enjoy!

_The scent of burning wax, pungent and smoky, clogged his nostrils, settled in the back of his throat like a wall of ash. He would’ve gagged on it, were the smell of blood, sweat and singed flesh pervading the air not overlapping it._

_Stan’s chest heaved against the ground as he shook, scarcely able to breath._

_“Please,” he croaked, mouth sore and dry from screaming. The hand pressing against his neck didn’t waver, and the blade in the other hand twisted, making a vertical arch across his skin, sending thin rivulets of crimson sliding down his shoulders. **“Please,”**_ _he begged again, choking on a moan._

_The word might as well have been meaningless, for all that it reached his brother, who cackled as he worked, occasionally humming with concentration or commenting casually on his progress - so blatantly apathetic to Stan’s suffering that it hurt **worse** than the actual pain-_

Stan came to with a gasp, throat closing around a cry. He wrenched away from the constricting grip of the blankets - not hands, not rope - wincing as the motion pulled at tender skin. He brushed trembling fingers over the white gauze strung tight over his abdomen, making him look like some sort of half-mummy creature his paranormal-obsessed brother would dig up in the backyard.

Calmer now, the remnants of the nightmare fading, Stanley shifted onto his side, burying his cheek into the pillow. Mid-morning sunlight streamed through the window; or maybe it was noon already. His sleeping patterns had been irregular lately, and when he did manage to sleep comfortably, it was usually due to a fair amount of pain medication.

Thrashing in bed seemed to be the extent of his activity for the last couple of days, as his brother and Fids were insistent he stay in bed as long as he needed, and he was cowardly enough to take the advice, grateful even.

Suddenly, Stan felt a surge of disgust at his own behavior. What was he doing, acting like a fucking invalid? Hiding wasn’t going to solve anything. Time to get up and face the day.

With a growl of contempt, Stanley swung his legs over the mattress, with strength borne of pure spite. He wrestled into a plain, loose-fitting shirt, every pull of fabric stretching across his skin chafing, making sensitive stitches _itch_.

Shirts had become the devil during his recovery. But he would rather bear the stinging discomfort than bare his new assortment of scars for everyone to see.

As if agreeing with this sentiment, his stomach gave a nauseas jolt, although that could have very well been the result of hunger.He hadn’t eaten much the day before, only half-heartedly sipping at the thermos of soup Fids had brought from home.

“Not my grandma’s southern possum stew, but it should fill you up just fine,” he’d joked, attempting to mimic Stan’s usual sense of humor. Stan had appreciated the effort, even mustered a chuckle that rustled his hoarse throat.

Usually Fids visited at least once a day, to check on his bandages and overall health, while also providing some company. Stan couldn’t convey how thankful he was for the kind show of friendship, yet he still felt a twinge of guilt, since Fids never seemed all that comfortable in the Shack for too long, and any fool could read the tense, wary glances he and Ford shared.

(They were still privy to something he didn’t fully comprehend, but after receiving a taste of the truth, Stan wondered if staying in the dark might be preferable)

Burying those musings for the time being, Stan walked to the kitchen in slow, steady strides, more fatigued than anything. As he approached his destination, he heard noises from within the room, and knew without a doubt that it was Stanford puttering about.

Stanley swallowed thickly, willing his heart to stop thumping against his ribcage.

_You are not afraid of your brother._

Taking the plunge, he stepped inside, and relaxed when he saw his brother sitting at the table, head bowed over a book, with a cup of steaming coffee at his side. It was such a familiar, non-threatening sight that he sighed a little, the sound inadvertently announcing his presence.

“Stan!” Ford started, standing instantly, as if Stanley was liable to topple over any minute. He was too weary to decide whether he was touched or annoyed by the concern.

“How’re you feeling?” were the next words out of his brother’s mouth, predictably, sharp eyes sweeping over his disheveled form.

“Sore,” muttered Stan, taking a seat because alright, standing or long periods of time after being idle _was_ a bit of a nuisance. “Otherwise, m'fine.”

Ford smiled with fond exasperation, the gesture not quite meeting his eyes. It usually didn’t these days. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.”

“I _am_ doing okay,” Stan insisted, using his most winning, sincere salesman tone. “Really.”

“Mmm.” Stanford hummed with clear disbelief. Then, apropos to nothing, he observed, “You’ve been having nightmares.”

Stan froze, not expecting to be caught in a lie. Yet he recovered quickly enough, shooting back, “Well, the only reason you know that’s ‘cause _you_ haven’t been sleeping, either.”

Ford had the audacity to look shocked by this accusation. Stan scoffed.

“Geez, s'not like my eyes were injured, and you could spot the bags under yours for miles.”

“Touché,” Ford mumbled. In an obvious effort to change the subject, he asked, “Do you, ah, want anything to eat?”

Stan's stomach chose that moment to chime in, rumbling ravenously. “We got anything edible?”

“We have…” Ford trailed off, taking a short of the cabinets and fridge. “…a few questionable cans of tuna and a carton of milk _way_ past its expiration date.”

Figures. Since he’d started living here, Stan had more or less been appointed the grocery-shopper, and taken on the duties of housekeeper; oftentimes Ford got too caught up in his research to pay much attention to those kinds of chores. Plus, it was a way of earning his keep without having to pay rent with money he didn’t have, something Ford hadn’t demanded he do, but something Stan felt obligated to offer nonetheless - 'cause if he couldn’t make himself useful, _why_ keep him around?

“I’ve had worse,” Stan deadpanned. “But unless we want to add food poisoning to our current list of maladies, you should probably make a grocery run.”

Ford frowned deeply. “I don’t want to leave you by yourself,” he negated. “Maybe Fiddleford could…”

“Ah, there’s no reason to bother him,” asserted Stan. Why continue to tea the man away from his home, when it was obvious that being in the Shack made the engineer uneasy? Not that he _wasn’t_ uncomfortable, too, after recent events. But that was different - Stan was Ford’s brother and he would stick by him through thick and thin. But Fids had his own family to worry about, a _kid_ even, who needed his dad a whole lot more than Stan needed his friend.

“C'mon, Sixer, I can handle an hour on my own.”

Looking contemplative, Ford shook his head. “No, I don’t think-”

“Well, I _do_ think!” snapped Stan. Both of them were jarred by the unprovoked,  vehement outburst.

“…that you should just go. I-I’m really starved,” he finished lamely, the attempt to normalize his reaction falling flat.

Nevertheless, Stanford nodded, albeit reluctantly. “I understand,” he intoned listlessly, a note of guilt underlining his voice. “I should leave now then- I won’t be long…yes, of course, the space will probably be good for you…”

The last part was spoken under his breath before he made a hasty retreat. Stan watched him leave with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 _Shit_. Now Sixer must think Stan sent him away so he could rest easy without worrying about his brother having another maniacal episode. That he couldn’t stand to be near Ford for too long without having an anxiety attack.

But even as he told himself it wasn’t true, at his brother’s departure, the knots in his chest relinquished some of their pressure, as if relieved. Stan swore aloud, chastising his treacherous body.

_You are not afraid of your brother._

Maybe Ford was correct on one account - alone in the house, Stan didn’t feel all that secure, despite the assurance that him and Fids had fortified the Shack against “incorporeal intruders.” Each creak of wood became an unseen foe, each draft of wind the whisper of haunting cackle.

Distraction. That’s what he needed, Stan resolved as he went to chair in front of the television set. Get lost in a corny Spanish _telenovela_ , or some brightly colored cartoon, or maybe there was a boxing match on.

Perhaps part of the reason he was so adamant on being left alone was to prove that he wasn’t some nutter that jumped at every shadow on the wall. He was okay, damn it, and this was his chance to show everybody, including himself.

And he _could_ do this. Sit back, relax. Watch some TV. What’s the worst that could happen?

.

.

.

.

He must have dozed off at some point, passed out. When he awoke, his hands were bound behind by knots slick with blood from his efforts to gain freedom.

Ford was gone, had scrammed once he was done with carving into his flesh, and Stan had lain prone, unable to move or watch as his footsteps disappeared upstairs, leaving him at the mercy of the silence and dark, the cruel taunts of a tortured mind.

And Stan, sick was it was, had _beseeched_ him to come back, to not leave him alone. Even after everything, it was _awful_ , this feeling of total abandonment - punishment was better, somehow, because at least it meant there was a chance at penitence, right? It meant Ford felt something towards Stan, rather than nothing at all.

 _Be careful what you wish for_ , a demonic chuckle resounded in his ear, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight. He struggled harder, more desperately, trying to break his bonds.

Fingers clutched at his wrist, unrelenting, and Stan bucked on instinct, fearing another assault.

 _No, not again!_ Stanley fought meekly, cursing his own weakness, his inability to stop it.

“Let go!” he rasped, lashing out at the grip on his arm. “Stay back! Please, I’m sorry, _sorry_ , it hurts, no more-”

 _“Stan,”_ a voice called, a beacon through the dark fog. He clung to it. “Stanley, calm down…shush, hey, it’s safe, _you’re_ safe, listen to me…”

Focusing on the voice - his _brother’s_ and not the cold, distorted parody that haunted his dreams - Stan forced his eyes open, tearing a hole through his nightmare realm. He was on the floor of the living room, Ford’s hand loosely clutching his forearm. Light poured through the window while the TV hummed in the background. He must have fallen asleep, he realized slowly… Ford must have returned to find in the midst of a bad dream, and in an attempt to save him, triggered a nasty flashback…

He heaved in a gulp of air, exhaling shakily. Ford remained at his side, watching him regain his bearings.

“Okay, huh.” His brother’s tone was severely unimpressed as he mocked Stan’s earlier assurances, causing his cheeks to burn with shame.

“Sorry,” he wheezed, jumping when a hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him to meet his brother’s stormy face, red-rimmed eyes and all.

“Don’t,” Ford enunciated sternly, roughly, “you apologize to _me._ You have got nothing to be sorry for.”

Swallowing back a protest, Stan nodded, still miserable and embarrassed. “Freakin’ pitiful is what I am,” he snorted self-depreciatingly, raking a hand through his sweaty hair. “Can’t even function enough to take a _nap_ without cracking up.”

His brother’s gaze softened sympathetically.

“Nobody expects you to be fine after the trauma you’ve been through,” Ford reasoned. “I know you’re scared and wary and look, you have every right to be. Just-”

He inhaled sharply, struggling to find the words. He sounded so tired, so resigned when he next spoke. “You don’t have to put on a brave front to impress anyone. Or force yourself to act normal around me. I won’t think you’re weak for it.”

Quietly, he added, “I’m not Dad.”

Stan slumped at the admission, some of the stiffness in his spine oozing away. Because when possessed, Ford _had_ reminded him of Dad, with the disparaging way he spoke - but now he bore absolutely no resemblance to the man. This was _his_ brother, definitely his Ford, through and through.

“No, you’re not,” he murmured gratefully, leaning his forehead onto Ford’s shoulder. His heart beat steadily on, with no flinching whatsoever. “No doubt, you’re my stupid nerd of a brother.”

Ford startled with surprise - Stan hadn’t inhabited any physical contact since the incident - before looping his arm around his brother, holding him tight. “Stupid in more ways than you know,” he whispered darkly, more to himself than anyone else. “Once you’re more recovered, I promise I’ll tell you the whole story. No more secrets or lies.”

After everything that had already happened, Stan wasn’t sure he wanted to know the full story anymore. Knowing that his brother was willing to share, however, and _trusted_ him enough to do so, was a heartening boost to his morale.

“I have a solution that will ensure my mind’s fortified against intruders from now on,” Ford went on, though his brother was only half-listening, feeling like he might drift off again. “It may sound drastic, but it’s the only option, really.”

He felt Ford’s hands clench into fists against his shoulder blades, where the worst of his scars lay. “I can’t allow this uncertainty and paranoia to go on, Stanley, for both our sakes. I understand if you don’t believe me right now, if you need time, but as your brother I _swear_ to you… I’ll never let you be hurt by these hands ever again.”

“I believe you,” sighed Stan softly. Even if the tense lines of his shoulders didn’t, if his scars still ached at the memory of a meticulous blade. But someday they wouldn’t, he knew, and if they could both keep from coming apart at the seams 'till then, maybe it would be someday _soon._


End file.
